Targeting
by queenmab-scherzo
Summary: Steve and Bucky end up playing for rival college football teams.
1. Junior Varsity

**Summary:** Football is brutal, rigorous, and violent, and it is trivial, but on Saturday mornings in November, there is no greater romance.

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own rights to any of Marvel's characters.

* * *

 _Junior Varsity_

In 1974, Dodgers pitcher Tommy John underwent the kind of surgical procedure that could revolutionize sports medicine.

It was an experiment at best, an act of desperation at worst.

John debuted as a rookie for the Cleveland Indians in 1963. His sinker ball forced countless batters into double plays. He was a two-time all-star and a two-hundred-game-winner. And in 1974, in the middle of a winning season and on the way to a National League Championship, he suffered permanent damage to his throwing elbow. His left arm.

Dodger physician Dr. Frank Jobe devised a radical surgery to replace the ulnar collateral ligament with a healthy tendon harvested from another part of the body—ideally, a forearm or knee. Dr. Jobe and Tommy John agreed to the operation without any pretense. The damage to his elbow was extensive, and the chances of a success were slim.

Success meant Tommy John would return to baseball as normal. Success would entail a full recovery of the athlete he once was, at peak professional performance. Success would heal whatever wounds his body had endured and restore his full potential. Failure could mean any number of outcomes, from an end to his career, to permanent damage to the ulnar nerve, to the serious complications that always accompany anesthesia and a surgical table.

The operation was a success. Today, it is known as "Tommy John surgery."

Since 1974, dozens of professional and aspiring athletes have undergone the same procedure. Through experience and practice, it has become one of the most reliable operations in sports medicine, though it requires a substantial recovery period.

Some athletes claim that they can execute at a higher level post-surgery; they claim that their arm feels stronger, and that they can throw harder. As a result, it is not uncommon for young athletes and their parents to approach orthopedic surgeons and request a preemptive graft procedure to an uninjured arm in an effort to improve the power and control.

The belief that Tommy John surgery actually enhances physical capability, however, is a myth.

Once an athlete has recovered from the operation, he or she regains full use of a normal, healthy arm. Those who report better performance post-surgery have often spent years beforehand playing through fatigue, overuse, and injury. They have become used to working against their damaged body. This skews their perception of health versus enhancement.

* * *

Bucky has a better arm than Steve.

They're both fifteen years old, both sophomores in high school, both habitually eat their weight in bananas and barbecue potato chips, both live alone with their moms in Brooklyn, unless you count Bucky's stepfather, which he doesn't.

And when they play catch at the park or by the long jump pit at school, there's never any question. Bucky has the better arm.

He shrugs when Steve points this out. "I don't have the accuracy you have."

"You always hit me right in the chest."

"Yeah, but that's with you."

Steve doesn't press the issue. He doesn't mention that they only play well together because they've been doing it so long.

Bucky is the kind of guy people actually want on their football team. He is the joker in the deck. He doesn't move like other people, like he has to consider his next action, like his brain has to tell his body what to do. He moves with confidence—not the confidence of pride, but of expectation. His motion belongs in the world.

Sometimes Steve catches himself staring at Bucky when he is in motion. The steady pattern of his footwork. The lazy, perfect arc of his throwing arm, the Pythagorean precision. The way he can make even the most brutal tackle look beautiful.

The thing is, that's not even the most impressive thing about Bucky Barnes. Sure, he's physically gifted. But Steve knows what made him that way. Steve knows how many reps it took in the weight room and how many miles on the treadmill. He was there for most of it—not keeping pace, exactly, but acting as a spotter on the benchpress or manning the stopwatch on the short track. He does all the weight and agility training. Just not at Bucky's level. Yet.

As one only can in high school, Bucky plays both offense and defense. He's not the star of the team, and won't be as long as they have a running back like Gabe Jones, but he has the kind of hybrid utility that always puts him in the right place at the right time.

And he has a great arm. But he doesn't want to play quarterback.

It bothers Steve. He brings it up with his mother, who says "it's alright. I'm sure you'll be as good as him someday," missing the point as usual.

Steve shares his concern with Peggy, too. "He's so fast. I'd hate to waste his speed at quarterback."

Steve agrees, but it's really not a satisfying answer. Hasn't she seen the way Bucky can hit the corner of the end zone from fifty yards away?

"I have," she says. "Maybe the coach will use him for some trick plays."

The cold logic of it frustrates Steve. He's been playing catch with Bucky for almost ten years and hasn't ever thought of him as a trick play.

* * *

Steve's ear stings with the abrupt, intimate violence of his right earbud being ripped out of place. He whirls to face the perpetrator.

And wants both to sigh and to scream.

"Come on, Hodge," he says. The pressure changes in the atmosphere of his circulatory system; the swift drop of oncoming storm clouds. "We're all teammates, here."

"'We're all teammates, here'," Hodge mocks.

"What d'you want?"

Steve stands up. There are four rows of lockers lining the wall. His eyes reach up to the third. Gil Hodge can probably see the top of them.

"Just want to know what you're listening to, Rogers."

"You could have asked."

"What's it look like I'm doing?"

What do they call lightning when it only exists as a sharp breath between black clouds?

"…Looks like you still haven't given my headphones back."

Hodge ignores him, of course. He sticks it the earbud his own ear, and his face instantly contorts as if with acute gastric discomfort. "What is this?"

Steve casts an exasperated look around the locker room, but the only people who are paying attention are two of Hodge's friends, who seem amused, but not amused enough to interfere one way or another. "It's my pre-game playlist."

"You listen to this before games?" Hodge prompts.

"Yes."

"What is it?" he repeats.

"Creedence Clearwater Revival."

A beat of silence. A distantly satisfying beat of silence.

Hodge snorts. "Was that English."

"Come on, Hodge, give it back—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," he says quickly, gripping the wire. "We're just having fun here, right? We're all teammates, right?"

"What seems to be the matter here, kids?!"

Hodge's eyes blossom, and Steve whirls around to find—

"Bucky."

Steve isn't sure whether to feel grateful or annoyed or something else, a deeply buried point of warmth. Bucky crosses his arms and squares his shoulders and grins a wild slow wicked smile, and Steve feels them all at once.

"Why don't you go ahead and return Rogers' property, now?" Bucky says, licking his top teeth.

"We were just having a nice conversation about music," Hodge says, totally, blissfully, unabashedly at peace. "Weren't we, Steve?"

"Yeah, but geez, man," Steve adds, "I still haven't had a chance to listen to your music."

Hodge doesn't seem to understand completely, but he does understand that he's supposed to be angry.

"Better than yours, whatever this crap is."

Bucky laughs, a little hysterical, a little this-is-the-only-thing-keeping-me-from-punching-you. "I think the guy who threw five touchdowns in his last game can listen to whatever the hell he wants."

"Yeah," Hodge says with a sinister smile. "Maybe someday he'll get to do it for a varsity team."

"Maybe someday I'll be just like you." Steve shows his teeth. "Sitting the bench on a varsity team."

Hodge's face turns crimson. "Better than your bodyguard, here," he says, nodding at Bucky. "How many passes did you drop last week?"

Steve doesn't realize he's leapt forward, he didn't mean to attack Hodge or anything, but he must have done so, because the next thing he knows, Bucky is holding him back, a tenuous grasp on Steve's elbow and the back of his shirt.

Steve satisfies himself by grabbing the wire to his headphones and yanking it away from Hodge. He whips around and shoves past Bucky toward the locker room exit.

"Steve—damn—you okay, man?"

"Okay?" Steve stops in his tracks, chest heaving. "I can take care of myself, you know!"

"Yeah, 'course I do, I was just—"

"I wasn't gonna hit him or anything."

Bucky wrinkles his nose.

Whirling around again, Steve stomps out of the locker room and only when he's out in the cooler, fresher air does he regain his bearing. He pauses, takes a breath, regains his bearing, and sobers enough to be a little embarrassed about his outburst. The part where he yelled at his best friend, that is. Not the part where he threatened a senior fullback with just the medicine he deserved.

"You're so cute when you're mad."

Steve glances up and catches Bucky's teasing smile. He rolls his eyes. "I wasn't gonna hit him."

"You really were."

Deep breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth. "Yeah. Maybe."

"Steve Rogers, starting fights in the locker room." And did Bucky really just "tsk" him?

"He's got no business calling you out like that."

Bucky laughs and slings an arm over Steve's shoulders, steering them toward the wall of glass doors that lead outside. He tugs at Steve's headphones and twists them around two fingers. "The 70s playlist?" he deftly changes the subject.

"I like rock music, Buck."

"I'm not judging."

"Really?" Steve smirks. "Because it sounds like you're judging."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"...Okay, maybe it's a little Remember the Titans. But—"

"Steve, trust me," Bucky cuts in, uncharacteristically sober. "I meant what I said. If you keep throwing touchdowns like you did last week, I don't care if you listen to Celine Dion before games."

It's the whole combination that makes Steve laugh; the five touchdowns from last weekend, the thought of Titanic pre-game rituals, the sudden jab of autumn air as they step outside, the way Bucky's hip knocks against his. Whatever you call the opposite of lonely.

It takes some wheedling and some puppy-eyes (the only response Steve gets when he says "But I have so much homework!"), but fifteen minutes later, they are in line for subs at the Jimmy Johns two blocks away from school.

Bucky rattles off orders for the both of them.

"I can pay for my own food, you know," Steve grumbles. As always, it does no good. Which is nonsense because Steve's family could pay for Bucky's education for the next decade without feeling it, but it's not like Steve ever sees a cent—and Bucky knows that.

Steve also doesn't mention how effortless it was the way his regular turkey club just rolled off Bucky's tongue. It makes Steve think of his seat in the back row of AP psychology, in the corner, between Peggy and the wall of windows. They've been talking about the subconscious. The powerful awareness of thoughtlessness. It's like storage, a treasure chest of the things you want to talk about but would rather not think about.

While Bucky waits for the order, Steve fills their drinks and stakes a claim on a corner booth for the two of them. He grabs a napkin to wipe the crumbs off the table. When they're both settled on opposite bench seats, sandwiches spread between them, the conversation turns—inevitably—to football.

"Just glad we're finally into the heart of the season, you know?" Steve says as he picks sprouts out of a glob of mayonnaise.

He always refers to the varsity team as "we" even though he plays JV. Maybe because it's his school, after all—because they all wear the same colors; maybe because of that dormant conviction that one day he will be a part of them; maybe because Bucky is one of them. Steve could never extract himself from Bucky—he could never separate them into two identities. However, as always, his lack of personal involvement allows Steve to analyze the varsity schemes with a calculated efficiency.

"We need to prove ourselves against some better teams," he says. "Burnside is doing well, but the line hasn't been tested."

"The teams we've been playing not good enough for you?" Bucky deadpans.

Steve's cheeks grow hot. "I didn't mean you guys weren't any good, I just—the smaller schools aren't as exciting, and …" he trails off when Bucky starts laughing. "—Sorry."

"No, no, it's fine." His features stretch into an easy smile. "I'm messing with you. The newspapers have been way meaner than that, don't worry."

Steve thinks back to that morning, flipping through to the sports section, reading the headline about lethargic offenses. Words like young, inexperienced, unproven.

"Sorry."

"Well?" Bucky prompts.

Steve looks up and knits his brow.

"We played someone good last night." Bucky specifies. "How were we?"

Steve swallows down a stunned silence. "I mean, I think you guys look great this season. It's kind of hard to judge, obviously, with the competition lacking so far. But the potential is there, especially on the offensive line, which is practically unheard of in high school ball."

"Yeah."

"This weekend I don't want to see any cute tricky stuff. I want to line up in a pro-style offense and chip away. We're a running team, after all." Immediately, Steve wishes he could catch that last statement on a hook and reel it back in.

I literally just told our star receiver that the team needs to run more.

Letting out a shaky breath, he chances a glance at Bucky's face—but he doesn't look surprised or hurt or upset. There's a gleam in his eyes; a softness in his crooked smile. The same look he gets on his face when he catches Steve's old golden retriever sleeping under his feet.

Steve can feel his breathing accelerate. "What?" he asks.

"Nothing." Bucky leans back in his chair, grinning now, toothy and sinful. "You're right, that's all."

"… I am?"

"I've practiced so much blocking this week I'm starting to feel like a tight end."

Steve's lungs hitch and he nearly inhales his Coke, and tries not to make it too obvious that he's choking to death.

Maybe he does it to show a little mercy, but Bucky just smiles and carries on the conversation. "Three weeks, though. That's when we play Jefferson, and their defense sucks. I'm gonna tear them up."

"Can't wait," Steve says hoarsely.

"Still wish you were the one throwing to me, though." Bucky addresses his lap, fiddling with a seam on his jeans.

It's something they haven't talked about in weeks. It was better left ignored, honestly. The deep stabbing pain they had both felt when they read the try-out results. When they found "Barnes" right at the top of the varsity list, but scanned it three times before discovering "Rogers" buried on the second page of the JV roster.

Bucky had taken it much harder than Steve, at least visibly so. He'd kicked a chair across the locker room and cursed so loudly Steve tried frantically to shut him up before a coach or a P.E. teacher caught him anointing them with choice nicknames.

"It's fine, really—I'm just a sophomore, it's not—"

"It's bullshit, is what it is!" Bucky had shouted. "Seriously? Will Burnside?! You could pass better than him blindfolded!"

"Come on Buck," Steve had said with a half-hearted laugh, trying to calm him down, "I'm barely five-six, I wouldn't even be able to see over the linemen."

"And that's my season down the drain. We'll probably throw the ball like, twice."

"There's always next year."

"It's still bullshit."

He'd cooled off eventually. Then they spent a couple weeks coming to grips with the fact that they'd be playing for different teams for the first time since fifth grade, but the mantra was always the same—next year.

Over the summer, they had gone their separate ways for two-a-days. Steve fought off the iron emptiness in his stomach. The heaviness, the cold knowledge that he still hadn't proven himself, still couldn't pull this off, still couldn't translate the aching well of passion in his guts into hard statistics. Everything blooming against his sternum and nothing to show for it.

Here, now, entrenched in a corner of a chrome-trimmed sandwich shop, Bucky brings it up again. It's not a sore spot, exactly. Just a sharp wistfulness. The space between them grows and shrinks all at once.

Praying that his voice won't sound like it's going through a cheese grater, Steve takes a breath before responding. "There's always next year."

Without looking up, Bucky's lips crook into a little half-smile. "I'd have twice as many touchdowns if you were the one passing the ball."

"Yeah, if a big linebacker from Queens didn't snap me in half first."

Bucky doesn't answer. He takes a bite, chews, swallows, takes a drink. "Burnside fumbled twice last week."

"Yeah." Steve doesn't know what else to say.

After another long pause, Bucky moves on. "I read a long thing online last night that said Monroe is going to take my spot and catch 1000 yards by the end of the season."

"That's just stupid."

"You don't have to flatter me," Bucky grins. One of those bright-eyed shepherd dogs who brings the frisbee half way back just to taunt you with it.

Steve blushes, his thoughts temporarily fizzled out.

"I—I mean, a thousand yards? Stupidest thing I've ever heard," Steve stammers. He thinks about zone blitzes and blocking ends and checkdowns. "Monroe will only have to catch half that to take your place."

Bucky's eyebrows shoot up before he bursts into laughter. "Oh, alright, alright, just like a quarterback, aren't you? All talk."

Steve would retaliate, but they both dissolve into undignified giggling.

"No one's going to take your place," Steve finally manages to say, his tone gentle. "You're the best receiver in the state. People just like to stir up controversy. "

"They do," Bucky says, nodding. He cocks his head and plays with one earlobe. "I dunno about all that 'best in the state' business, but. Sure."

"Maybe if you were a little taller …"

"Oh, yeah?" Bucky smirks. "You're a punk."

"You have pretty good hands, though."

Bucky's bark of laughter makes Steve jump, but that doesn't take away the warm, purring satisfaction that curls in his stomach. It's his favorite thing, probably. Making Bucky blush like that.

Fair is fair.


	2. Varsity

There is nothing more relaxing than playing catch in the backyard.

Well, figuratively speaking. Steve has never had a backyard, and Bucky has never had any kind of yard, but they make do with the sidewalk in front of the Rogers' Brooklyn condo, which features a patch of grass, two neatly-trimmed bushes, and light traffic.

They don't have the luxury of a rural prairie cornfield, so DUMBO will have to do.

There was a time when Bucky was the only person willing to play catch with Steve. When Steve felt like a burden and, in the eyes of most people, _was_ a burden. A clumsy athlete and a desperate kid who thought he could play football. Bucky never treated him that way. In fact, more often than not, he was the one asking to spend more time with Steve.

Nowadays, Steve could probably ask any of his teammates and they'd jump at the chance to work out with him. Steve is still afraid to ask, though, so to this day, the only person he really sees outside of school and practice is Bucky Barnes.

When the apartment gets a buzz in the middle of the day on a Sunday, Steve doesn't even ask who it is, he just ties his shoes and meets Bucky downstairs with a football. If it's raining, they opt instead for Madden on the Xbox.

Actually, one time they _did_ play catch in the rain.

"This is stupid," Steve had said after the ball slipped through his hands for the third straight time.

"No, it's just good practice." Bucky's smile had shimmered through the sheets of rain. He hadn't dropped any passes yet.

"I'm not exactly a wide receiver, Buck."

"And I'm not exactly a quarterback."

Steve had taken that as a challenge. They had spent the next half hour running routes across the street, around the bushes, into the alley, and between parked cars. Afterwards, he couldn't feel anything below his knees from the cold. They didn't drop any passes. Steve scrubbed at his hair until it stuck up in every direction. When they went inside, cheeks flushed from the sudden spike in temperature, Bucky pulled wet leaves off of Steve's back and eventually ended up borrowing dry sweatpants and a hoodie from Steve's closet.

Steve has never lost a game in the rain since that day. He has Bucky to thank for that.

The October of their junior year, however, is dry and uneventful. It allows for a relaxing catch in their, you know, "backyard." And they've been doing it so long, they can practically read each other's minds. It's the kind of ritual that makes them a terror together on game day—especially now that they're both playing varsity.

Steve wraps his fingers around the football's seams and lobs it across the street. "I heard Hamilton has a great run defense."

"I know," Bucky chuckles. "Sounds like a challenge, to me."

"I think I'm going to ask Coach Erskine if we can work on some post-routes in practice this week."

"You saying I need to work on my routes?"

"Oh, God, I didn't—no, I just thought—if Gabe struggles at the rushing game this week, I just think we ought to—to be ready for anything, you know. You're fine, of course, I'm the one who—"

"Steve, it's fine, I swear." Bucky is laughing outright, now. "It's a good idea."

"Right."

"We're gonna roll over them this weekend."

"Right."

"Thanks to me, of course, because I can catch all the garbage you throw my way."

Steve blushes from his neck to his forehead. "… Shut up, Bucky."

When the sun slants into late afternoon, they retire to the den with guacamole and microwaved mozzarella cheese sticks and four liters of Diet Mountain Dew. It's the fourth week of the NFL season and the New York Giants are hosting the Seattle Seahawks. It will end up a disappointingly average season, the kind where fans talk about David Tyree with both fond nostalgia and faint hopefulness, but also resign themselves to the typical lukewarm woes of late-season lags.

But now, it is only week four. Bucky and Steve have enjoyed three Giants wins so far, texting back and forth until Steve finally insists Bucky come over so they can enjoy the games together.

During week four, they begin a weekly tradition of setting aside homework, playing catch, and weight-lifting for three hours in order to watch New York complete what would end up a .500 season. During week four, they sprawl over the futon and shout at the Giants' coaches through the television screen. During week four, Steve finally admits he might like Peggy Carter—beyond, you know, one cheap dinner date.

It's in the fourth quarter, when Eli Manning throws his third interception and the Giants go down for good.

"Is this a joke?! I counted not two, not three, but _four_ open receivers on that play," Steve complains. "You'd think Eli Manning could find _one_ of them."

No response.

"Bucky?"

"I don't know." Bucky laughs breathlessly. "To be honest, I was—I was distracted, I guess."

Steve's heart skips a beat.

He glances at Bucky, whose eyes are fixed, unseeing, on the television screen, lips slightly parted. Steve frowns. "Distracted? From the Giants?"

"Yeah," he chokes out. "We've been losing for most of the game. Can't really focus, I guess."

Something gently tugs at Steve's throat. "It's that time of year."

The silence stretches between them. It is that time of year, the time of year when school work reaches its peak and football becomes all-consuming—everything to the point of nothing, a kind of chronic disease that you learn to live with, or worse, an addiction you can't go without. It's overwhelming to say the least.

Steve says the first thing that comes to mind which could lighten the mood. "I'm thinking of asking Peggy to the homecoming dance."

Without speaking, Bucky reaches forward for one of the open Mountain Dew bottles and empties it into his glass.

Steve gets up to retrieve another bottle of soda from the kitchen. When he shuffles back into the den, Bucky hasn't moved. He sets the two-liter on the coffee table and flops back onto the futon, his knee knocking against Bucky's thigh.

"It's a good idea." Bucky takes a long drink, swallows, and makes a face.

"What?"

"You and Peggy."

"I'm kind of afraid to ask her."

"Afraid she'll say no?"

"More afraid she'll say yes, actually."

Though he smiles softly, Bucky still doesn't look up. "She's kind of scary that way, isn't she?"

"Mm." Steve takes a drink himself, then asks, "you gonna go to the dance?"

Bucky huffs again with laughter. "Maybe." His face burning red, he ducks to stare at his hands. "I don't know who I'd ask, though."

—

Some teams have statisticians; some school newspapers have that one kid who gets in too deep when it comes to the sports opinion column; some teammates watch the local news together to see the highlights; some football dads send footage in to ESPN to make the Top Ten plays of the week; some schools have boosters who organize fundraising that could rival political campaigns.

MacArthur High School has Peggy Carter.

"Honestly, Steve, ten for twenty-three?" she says wearily. Her lunch bag lies forgotten and crumpled to one side, and the local paper stretches before her, covering the textbook she swore she was going to study. But here they are.

"Sorry." Steve can't think of anything else to say.

"Look, I don't know what your excuse is this week—"

"—no excuses, Peg—"

"Do you want to lead this team to the state tournament?"

"Yeah! We can—"

"Then you need to _lead_ them, Steve."

Coach Erskine is great, but Peggy lights the fire when they need it.

Steve attempts his best puppy eyes. "It won't happen again. I promise."

She rolls her eyes. Her eyeliner is a little smudged, but you can only tell from up close. Steve can also tell when she's trying not to smile.

"I'm sure it won't," she concedes. "That kind of performance isn't going to cut it against a good team like Hamilton."

"How's it going, kids?"

Bucky flops into the seat next to Steve, bumping his shoulder as he stuffs change into his pocket. His cafeteria tray holds a sub sandwich and a small mountain of potato chips.

"Going alright," Steve says, stealing a chip.

"Whoa, you have your own!" Bucky protests, stealing one of Steve's in return.

"Don't you dare distract him, Barnes," Peggy cuts in. She turns back to Steve. "The problem here isn't your physical capability. It's just your confidence."

"I'm confident!"

"You need to trust your receivers, Steve."

"It's not a big deal," he mumbles. His cheeks heat up and his eyes flick to Bucky. "Gabe is having a great season, we really just need to find ways to get him the ball more."

"Yes, we're a good running team," Peggy says, folding her hands over the newspaper. "But Gabe will be most effective if you can _also_ create a viable threat to defense. Other teams can't just load the box to stop the run game if they're afraid of you throwing touchdown passes."

Steve smiles. "I know. It's not that I don't trust the receivers."

"You should try rushing more."

"If Steve leaves the pocket, he's just asking to get injured," Bucky says, poking at his sandwich without eating it.

"I'm not a delicate flower, here," Steve grumbles.

"Growing five inches over the summer doesn't make you indestructible."

"A mobile quarterback would keep them on their toes," Peggy points out.

"I'm not arguing that—" Steve says before Bucky interrupts.

"God, can we _please_ not talk about football anymore?"

Silence drops onto the table like a rock. They both stare at Bucky, whose cheeks turn pink under their gaze.

Steve blinks. "What?"

" _Not_ talk about football?" Peggy says.

Bucky rolls his eyes. "Never mind," he mumbles. "Whatever. Mobile quarterbacks."

"What's the matter?" Steve nudges Bucky with his shoulder.

"Have you finished the article?" Bucky nods at the paper spread in front of Peggy and for a moment Steve thinks he's trying to change the subject. But Peggy casts him a sheepish look.

"I have," she admits. "I wasn't going to—well."

"Tell him how the media thinks, and I quote, 'Steve Rogers performs admirably for a _last-minute replacement_ '?" He snaps with a vehemence that makes Steve's jaw drop.

"What?"

"He's been playing since week two, that's hardly last-minute," Peggy says.

"What?"

"Oh, yeah," Bucky says, lip curled. "If you ask the local sports editor, we've won the last six games _despite_ Steve's so-called 'mediocre' playing."

"What?"

"Which is a joke, because they obviously haven't _actually_ seen you play. They're still stuck in pre-season rankings. You started the year a nobody, so they assume there's no story," he spits sarcastically. "And they _still_ mention Burnside in every fucking article, 'if only MacArthur still had Burnside,' 'wouldn't Burnside'—"

"Bucky—"

"No, I'm _tired_ of it!" he barks. His face is bright red. "It's not _fair_. It shouldn't _matter_ how big you are or how old you are—or how much money your daddy donates to the school."

A long silence settles over them, broken only by Bucky's heavy breathing. He runs a hand through his hair.

For some reason, the moment embeds itself in Steve's mind. A little kernel in his memory that drifts back into his consciousness once in awhile, triggered by the smell of newspaper or the sound of food trays clattering in the background. Years from now, Steve will still remember the muscles clenching in Bucky's jaw; will remember the sound of Bucky cracking his knuckles; Bucky avoiding eye contact for hours afterward.

"Well," Steve says after the awkward pause. "I haven't exactly been memorable so far this season."

Bucky scoffs.

"You haven't lost a game yet," Peggy says matter-of-factly and folds her newspaper.

When the bell rings, Bucky storms out of the cafeteria. Steve leaps up to follow him, but Peggy grabs him by the elbow before he can escape.

"Let him cool off."

"I just—"

"He's right, you know," she adds, gathering her things. "No one gives our team any respect. All they want to talk about are traditional powerhouses and rich private schools."

"It doesn't matter what they say about me," Steve says. "We just need to execute on the field."

"Bucky's worried about you."

"Worried about me playing like crap?"

"No, Steve," she glares at him. "Give him a little credit. He worries you'll get hurt."

"Hurt?"

" _Everyone_ is worried you'll get hurt. The coaches and the trainers and the reporters."

"I'll be fine," he shrugs.

"The problem is, everyone saw Burnside blow out his knee and go out for the season," Peggy says as they follow the crowd toward the cafeteria doors. "It's stuck in their memory, so now it's all they can think about—and they worry the same could happen to you."

"Are _you_ worried about me getting hurt?"

"Of course not," she says, then adds, with an air of affected nonchalance, "not that I don't care about you, of course."

Steve glances up, but her eyes are fixed on the end of the hallway.

"Because I _do_ ," she continues, "I just trust you. I know you can take care of yourself."

"Everyone else still looks at me and sees the hundred-and-ten-pound sophomore who kept falling over himself during JV games last year." Steve says it because she won't.

Peggy smiles. "I liked him, too, you know."

"You might be the only one," Steve says. "You and Bucky."

"You haven't changed that much."

"I'm a lot better at football now."

"You think so?" Peggy turns on her heel to study Steve's face, which instantly lights on fire.

"Y—sure," Steve says, suddenly more insecure than he was a split-second ago.

"Then it's about time you make a statement."

—

The trick play is Bucky's idea.

They are down by four points, which means a field goal wouldn't even get them into overtime. They started the drive deep in their own territory, and they've chipped away to the fifty-yard line. Unfortunately, time is against them. They have eight seconds to score a touchdown.

Huddled around their head coach, the offense is mostly silent—a pocket of still water in the churning ocean of the stadium. They all know what this means; to protect their undefeated season, their only option is a Hail Mary.

It is the definitive Act of Desperation. Literally a last-second play, a deep throw by the quarterback and a wild leap of faith by whichever receiver gets closest to the end zone. Without thinking, Steve rolls his shoulder and stretches his arm across his chest.

"—which means Barnes and Morita—"

"Coach." The interruption is clipped, but sharp.

Coach Erskine looks up from his whiteboard.

"Coach, I'm sorry, but it's just …" Bucky glances around the huddle. "They've been shutting down the long pass all night. Double-teaming me and Jim every other play. There's got to be—"

"I'll find the open man," Steve steps in.

"There won't _be_ an open man," Bucky says desperately.

"What are you saying, Barnes?" their coach asks with an uncharacteristic impatience.

"I'm saying Steve should check in as an eligible receiver."

Everyone stares. For a moment, the stadium seems almost quiet; the roar in Steve's ears becomes muffled, as if someone turned the volume down on hundreds of screaming teenagers and over-enthusiastic football fans.

A minute later, they line up for the play. Some kind of insanity Bucky and Coach Erskine concocted in about twenty seconds. It's madness, and if it works, Steve will probably buy Bucky dinner for a month.

The offensive line crouches in a row in front of Steve. The referee places the ball between the two teams and blows his whistle, and the clock begins to tick. Steve breathes in. Tries to calm his racing heart.

What if this doesn't work.

He glances to the right, and receives a thumbs up from Jim Morita. Glances to the left, toward the MacArthur sideline. From his place at the line of scrimmage, Bucky hops up and down on the balls of his feet. Steve waves, and Bucky goes into motion.

"Wait!" Steve shouts. He stands up from his crouch under center. "Coach, this isn't going to work!" He holds his hands out in a helpless gesture, then abandons his position, striding toward the sideline. "We should call another time out!" Bucky passes him at a jog while Steve tries to flag down their coach.

The Hamilton defense relaxes, glancing around at each other in confusion. The cornerbacks shrug, and the linebackers look to their own sideline for guidance.

That is when MacArthur snaps the ball.

Without hesitation, Steve turns on his heels and tears downfield. He blows past a bewildered Hamilton defender—then two more—and sees the end zone yawn before him. The stadium is muffled again; all he can hear is his heartbeat in his throat and the pounding of his cleats against the ragged turf.

He looks up, squinting into stadium lights. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Jim Morita and Alex Walker, his fellow receivers; and over his shoulder, he sees the football. It cuts through the air, spiraling toward him in a gentle curve. Steve adjusts his trajectory to the left—ever-so-slightly—stretches out his arms, and it's there. Leather trapped between his bare hands. He hauls it in to his chest.

The next thing he knows is deafening noise, Morita pounding his helmet in excitement, half his team flooding into the end zone. They tackle him with almost as much violence as opposing defenders.

Steve can't feel his cheeks. They are numb from smiling.

When he looks up, the scoreboard fills his vision. The "00:00:00" on the clock, the bright "26" under their score and the "24" under Hamilton. And Bucky's face, swimming into focus through the flare of stadium lights, eyes fierce and crackling and fixed on Steve.

They win their next game by twenty points. The week after that, they win by thirty.

Afterwards, Steve finds himself trapped by a throng of reporters. There are only half a dozen of them, but they are rabid, and they can sense weakness in their prey, so it seems like thirty.

They ask the usual questions, and Steve gives the usual answers, generic cliches like "Well, it was a team effort tonight," and "I owe it all to the offensive line, they really pulled through for me," and "we have the defense to thank, of course, for giving us some breathing room!" He pulls all the stops—the kind of eloquence politicians dream of, all charm, and he even flashes a smile, bargaining for an escape route, but no luck. More cameras cut him off at every turn. They're exponential. It's like a video game glitch.

Not that he doesn't like talking to the media, and the attention is more or less a good thing for the team's sake; but Steve almost faints with relief when he sees Gabe Jones fighting through the crowd to extract him.

"Steve!" he shouts, grinning. " _T'as besoin d_ _'_ _aide?_ "

Steve throws his head back and laughs. " _S'te pla_ _î_ _t_ _! Mon dieu,_ _s'te pla_ _î_ _t_ _!_ "

Together, Gabe and Tim Dugan part the waters so Steve can begin to fight through.

"So why did we win this time?" Gabe asks over the dull roar. " _Hasard? Merveille?_ "

"Stop it." Steve says, rolling his eyes fondly.

" _Que disent-ils?_ _Nous gagnera douze jeux_ _?_ "

Steve grins. " _En va voir._ "

"Excuse me! Excuse me! Steve, just one more question—one more question please!"

An arm appears from the crowd and grips Steve's elbow. He almost loses his balance whirling around to face a squat man with silver hair and square glasses.

"What?" Steve says breathlessly.

"One more question for you—" the man leans in close with a voice recorder, "—you and James Barnes seem to have incredible chemistry. Was tonight a fluke, or should we get ready to publish a lot of 'Rogers-to-Barnes' this season?"

"We—that's—yeah, I mean—um. Yeah, we're … good friends. Me and Bucky just—we click really well, you know?" So much for eloquence and charm.

"Are the two of you going to lead the team to state?"

"Sorry, you only said one more question!" Steve shrugs and turns his back on the flashing cameras.

Cackling, Gabe herds him off toward the locker room before anyone else can interject. Over his shoulder, Steve can hear a loud voice ringing over the crowd. "I heard someone say something about our awesome defense? Tim Dugan, but you can call me Dum Dum Dugan, middle linebacker. I can't remember—someone tell me, how many tackles did I have tonight?"

The rest of the team has already evacuated the stadium and climbed the hill leading to the locker room entrance. Steve can see them trickling through the door, their uniforms in various states of grime and distress.

Steve glances over his shoulder. "That was more reporters than usual."

"The two good teams in our conference had the week off," Gabe points out.

"What are you saying?"

The catch up to the rest of the team, falling into the line funneling into the locker room.

"Uh, just that they only care because they don't have anywhere better to be."

"They _care_ because we're 6-and-0," Steve says firmly, but softly, so that the rest of the team doesn't hear.

"I didn't say it was a bad thing." Gabe shrugs and smiles as he holds the door for Steve. "I'm gonna keep scoring touchdowns, whether those assholes care or not."

They turn around a corner of lockers and run into Bucky, who has already stripped down to an undershirt and started untying his cleats. "Who's an asshole?" he asks.

"Just the overly-aggressive zoo animals down there passing for sports journalists," Steve says.

Bucky reaches to take Steve's helmet so Steve can wrestle out of his shoulder pads.

"They asked about you, too, you know," Gabe says.

"Me?" Bucky grimaces. "Are they still bitching about me playing both ways?"

Gabe snorts.

"They—no, they just think you're an awesome receiver," Steve says. He shoots Gabe a funny look. "I told them we've always worked well together."

"If you two were there," Bucky nods at them, "I don't know what anyone would want to know about _me_."

Gabe leans over to whisper something in Bucky's ear and, instantly, as if someone had hit a light switch, Bucky's face turns scarlet.

"Shut up, Gabe, I swear to God—"

Laughing, Gabe claps him on the back. Then he turns to Steve and says something in rapid French before heading for the showers.

"Oh, fuck you guys, it's not my fault I only took one year of French!" Bucky's eyes are wide with panic. "What did he say?!"

Steve smiles. "He said next time they ask about our on-field chemistry, I should tell them how you have the best hands on the team."

If anything, Bucky's blush deepens. Steve feels a little lost, but he's still riding the high of a big win, so he can't really be bothered to worry about the weird nonsense Gabe Jones says in the locker room.


End file.
